


Put Out The Fire In Your Head

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He still dreamed about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Out The Fire In Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture into Dragon Age fic. I'm pretty new to the fandom, and have only played DA:I so far, so forgive any lore discrepancies etc at this point. Also I'm still finding my prose 'style' with DA fic, but hopefully someone will still enjoy this offering.
> 
> You can find me mostly on [tumblr as justjasper](http://justjasper.tumblr.com/). I'd love some DA/adoribull-centric followers, I'm feeling a little lonely in my new-found fandom over there at present!
> 
> Also this is unbeta'd because I don't have a DA fic beta yet, please feel free to point out any typos to me.

“ **I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares.” - Mark Z**

He still dreamed about it.

Nightmares, to be more precise. He was prone to dream regularly, and have the usual run of the mill 'all my friend really hate me' or 'all my friends are dead' nightmares no more frequently than the average person. But the ones about _that_ were still as intense as the night Dorian had fled Tevinter, when the memory was only a few hours old and he could still taste blood in the back of his throat, but he rarely woke up shouting and casting defensive wards to protect himself any longer.

The Iron Bull was a light sleeper, seemed to always be ready to wake at the slightest disturbance; he'd never been sure whether it was innate to qunari or a product of Ben-Hassrath training. So even when Dorian roused from a nightmare with only a gasped breath and sheen of sweat over his shaking body to show for it, there was the familiar firm weight against his back and a large hand sliding up his thigh. He could feel the residual warmth from a fragile fire remaining, and that along with his own heated body and the warm, solid weight against him helped the shake the lingering phantom sensation of a cold tiled floor against his flesh.

“S'okay.” Bull's voice was slow with sleep. “Got you.”

“Yes,” he murmured, pressing back into Bull. He didn't doubt that any longer, most of the time. He linked his fingers loosely around Bull's wrist and tugged, dragging the hand upwards to where he wanted it, spread out across his sternum. He put his own hand over it, dwarfed as it was, and closed his eyes so he could concentrate on breathing, on the feeling of that hand against him, and not the memory sensations of other times, other hands.

He still hadn't told anyone the details of what he relived in his nightmares, not even the man he'd shared a bed with for the last year. Cole's fleeting inappropriate broadcastings of his pain had given several of the inquisitor's favoured companions enough information to guess at what had happened to him, but they were all smart enough to leave the subject alone. His apparent tendency to mutter in his sleep when stressed meant he wasn't sure how much Iron Bull knew. A good deal, probably, but none of it in sequence. Sometimes he wanted to tell him, but he couldn't face the possibility that laying it all out so plainly would do nothing to make it sting less, that the ache would remain, or worsen with knowing the most painful part of himself had been shared needlessly.

When sleep wouldn't return, he sighed out a shaky breath and began to push himself up into a sitting position. He'd forgotten, in waking, that the orientation of Bull's horns meant he couldn't comfortably lie on his side to spoon around him as he had been, and true enough the man's head was propped on a hand supported by an elbow amongst the pillows. He was watching Dorian with the same steady, soft gaze he usually did during nights like this. They were rare, but not so much that they hadn't developed a routine.

Bull sat up too, and with the gentlest hands, no longer a surprise, he coaxed him into his lap, legs either side of the trunk of his torso. The Iron Bull knew what made the post-waking unease fade, knew better than Dorian would likely be able to articulate if ever pressed on the subject. He hooked his arms around his lover's neck, pressed his forehead against Bull's and let out a long breath through his nose. Bull's hands mirrored each other, palms against his ribcage and fingers reaching around his back, a firm hold that grounded him to the moment.

“I've got you.” Bull's voice was surer, fuller, now that he was fully awake. Dorian didn't reply a second time, only focused on long, slow inhales and exhales through his nose.

It used to be sex, predictably. The touch of someone that wanted him, enjoyed and appreciated all that he was in its rawest form had been a salve for the sting of remembering the cruellest thing he'd ever known. It had been something of a surprise to realise that he didn't need it, after some months. Eventually, he didn't need the frantic, physical proof that what he was not a wretched thing. He could find all that he needed to sooth the fire in his head just by Bull being there. Patient, gentle, but so sure, Dorian knew these disturbed nights were not a burden, knew that he didn't risk his lover growing weary of them, of the unspoken things Dorian carried. Being so sure of someone's intentions without either of them ever having laid them out plainly was a very strange feeling.

“How are you feeling?” Bull asked eventually, fingers tracing gently over his back.

“I'm fine.” He lifted his chin and pressed his mouth to Bull's forehead instead, feeling the scarred skin against his lips, worn smooth with their age.

“Sure?”

“Truly, I am fine.” His voice was weaker than he'd have liked, but Bull didn't press him further. Easing back, settling in the man's lap, he tried to make his next words less breathy. “If you dreamed properly, you'd have nights like this too.”

Bull was tactful enough not to counter the claim, raising his eyebrow and giving a little nod as if he found truth in the words, even though he must've known that most people did not wake up sweating and shaking semi-regularly. He was a blunt, upfront man, but he had never been cruel in all the time he'd known him.

Dorian dropped his arms along the other's shoulders, down his biceps as he nestled his face into the crook of Iron Bull's neck. They stayed together for several long moments, content to sit entwined in each other's limbs. Bull's arms wrapped around him more fully, easily engulfing his frame. He breathed in as Bull breathed out, and he concentrated on the movement of that great chest. There had been a time when he could never have imagined such a quiet, intimate moment between them, without the underlying question of what they were or what they were doing. It was still a nebulous thing, he supposed, but they lived in those sorts of times. It was a sure enough thing that their quarters were now by and large referred to as shared ones, however, and he felt like that counted for a great deal.

“One day,” Dorian whispered, though qunari hearing would never let him get away with pretending the words were not really spoken, “I will tell you about it.”

Iron Bull didn't say a word, instead kissed the top of Dorian's head, squeezing his arms around him more firmly, and held him as long as they could both bear the silence.

“You want to sleep again?” Eventually Bull eased him to sit up, so he could use the side of his fingers to tip his chin up and put a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Or is that a lost battle?”

“When have you known me to win a battle against such a worthy foe?”

“You're getting better,” Bull said off-handedly as they untangled themselves from each other, only to entwine again in a better position for sleeping. “You've even been rising before noon some days.”

Dorian relaxed against his lover's side, forgoing a playful elbow to his ribs, and hooked a leg over him for good measure as he tugged the quilt around them. Bull put a hand on the small of his back to keep him close and closed his eye, even though they both know that after night-time disturbances he always stayed awake until he'd made sure Dorian could sleep again. Knowing that made it that much easier to close his own eyes and relax against him, unafraid of what sleep might revisit on him. He was safe here.

“ **You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control.” - Megan Chance**


End file.
